Fear.

It opens its mouth begging for you to enter in such a way that might even be considered endearing if it were not for its eyes. They don’t stare at you —

they consume you.

You are already digesting within its imagination. That moaning. That whimpering. Why won’t it stop? Why sit there, waiting, as if it needed permission? All you can do is gaze as it gazes upon you, but not with such intimacy.

It is beautiful in its horrid design. It is perfect in every way; in fact, it was made for you. Your body has never trembled as it does now, has never felt fear — or known the meaning — before encountering this beast. The flesh responds all too well. The two of you have danced before. Abstract notions once freed of form, adrift on the wings of airy consciousness. But now you are here, given blood and bone, adorned with an aged soul whose ancient memories speak only in dreams, faced once again with the Brute.

How many times have you killed it? And how many times has it killed you? A dance,

ritualistic,

simultaneously absurd and utterly necessary.

The beast opens its mouth and is waiting for you to take the first step. It is easy to give in. The animal knows kindness. It will take care of you in its stomach. It will lull you to sleep with a purr. But today you will not give in.

Today you walk away.